Old Habits
by ThePerfidiousAlbion
Summary: Hours free of the curse, Rumple is already reverting back to some of his old ways. Fluffy Rumbelle alternate take on Belle's return to the shop after her "long walk." Spoilers for S2Ep1-Broken. Later bits influenced by the reunion scenes in Jane Eyre.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I neither own nor profit from these characters/ stories.

* * *

He didn't know what else to do. That was the simple truth of it – he had had something wonderful in his hands, for an unprecedented second chance, and not having learned anything – _anything_ – and still being a coward, he had let it slip away again in a moment of weakness.

Old habits were easy. Old paths were well worn. That's why he'd kept all these things in the shop. Why it was easy to move the spinning wheel from the corner and fetch the basket of roving from the shelf. Once, long ago, someone had asked him why he liked to spin, and he had told another half-truth. Another old habit.

Now his hands moved in remembered patterns, the wool moving between his nimble fingers, the wooden wheel turning slowly under his hand. He did like the motion of the wheel. He did like to forget – to try to forget. For all that had changed in this land, that hadn't. He had so much he wanted to forget.

As he sat, he heard the bell on the door tinkle, the sound echoing dimly in his mind. The sheriff or her… lovely family again, probably – he was prepared to send them away this time. He was not in a mood to be bothered. He heard footsteps crossing the floor, heard the curtain being tugged roughly open – and heard the small sound of a throat clearing. He turned automatically, curt words already forming in his throat – and saw her paused at the threshold, her hands holding aside the curtains. The wheel froze beneath his touch.

She cleared her throat again. "Hi," she said with forced casualness, dropping the curtain and taking another step into the back room. All his hard words drop from his mind and he felt his chest tighten inexplicably.

"Hey," he breathed, uncertain, hesitant, but hoping. His eyes followed her as she came to stand in front of him.

"I…went for a long walk," she said with a small nod, by way of explanation. She would not meet his eyes.

"I thought you didn't want to see me." He didn't sound surprised, or hurt – but she detected the shadow of that same flippant front – the one he had used in another life, when he tried to scare her away.

"I didn't, but I-" She wouldn't play games with him now. "I was worried."

"Well, the beast is gone, Regina…" he sighed with obvious distaste, addressing something in the vicinity of her elbow. "Lives."

Good news, at last. She peeked under her lashes at him, her voice timidly hopeful. "So…you didn't get what you wanted?"

"Well that remains to be seen," he said, and his voice was low and soft and she couldn't tell exactly what his cryptic words meant – for she heard the truths hinted at between his words, as she was used to hearing him in another life. And she was going to say something to him, to speak to him about his half-truths and hiding, when her eyes slid unbidden over his shoulder to rest on something on the table behind him. She looked again in surprise, then stepped closer with an amused little sigh.

"You still have it?" she asked incredulously, reaching for the object, a note of sad laughter in her voice. "My chipped cup." His guarded eyes followed her as she turned it in her hands.

Finally he rose, his sad eyes fixed on the porcelain object in her hands. "There are many, many things in this shop," he said gently, taking the cup from her. "But this -? This is the only thing I truly cherish." He met her eyes briefly. She would not know how her words long ago had wounded him with their truth, how he had taken them to heart until all he _could_ care for in the last world or this was the memory of his son or a broken piece of pottery. She would not know how this tiny, fragile fragment was the only reminder he would have of her, how fiercely he had fought for it, how he had given up his name to get it back, and how he would treasure these few new memories of her just as strongly beside it. She would not know this, because he would not – could not – tell her.

He arched his fingers over the cup, bringing it to his chest, separating his trophy from his treasure. "And now you must leave," he said gently, determined to send her away this time with just as much conviction but less cruelty.

She blinked and looked at him with confusion. "What?"

"You must leave," he repeated, "because despite what you hope…" His touched the cup in his hands to his chest, his eyes pleading with her to realize, to understand the truth in his whispered words. "…I'm still a monster."

But her eyes softened, and the corner of her mouth turned up in a familiar way. She shook her head in amusement, as he had always done at his tricks and ploys to scare her, and placed her hands on his shoulders. "Don't you see?" she said with a small smile. "That's exactly the reason I have to stay." He glanced away from her, his eyes full and incredulous and a little confused, and she smiled again. How quickly they could fall into old habits, even in another time, another land. She squeezed his shoulders slightly, to bring him back to the moment. "Now," she said, taking a breath, "tell me when you take dinner."

He shook his head slightly, still distracted. "I-, I don't always have dinner."

"Well you shall tonight, for I am very hungry," she said, more flippantly than she felt. "And I bet you are too, only you forget." Do the brave thing and bravery will follow, she reminded herself, as another smile spread across her features. "Let me help you close up," she said, taking the cup from his frozen hands and placing it firmly on the table, where it made a dull sound. She caught his empty hand between hers and brought the knuckles briefly, softly, to her lips. He finally met her eyes again, and she recognized the same careful and hopeful look she had long ago learned to treasure. "Rumplestiltskin," she said softly, bringing their joined hands to rest over her heart. "I want to go home."


	2. Chapter 2

It started raining while they were in the car. They didn't speak much on the short ride over, but he reached over and held her hand. The wipers made a calming rhythm, and mixed pleasingly with the soft sounds of the rain and the engine. Belle found her eyes growing heavy. She leaned her head against the cool glass of the window, just for a moment.

"Belle?" he squeezed her hand gently. She blinked and slowly lifted her head. She must have dozed off, she thought sheepishly. The car was stopped in the drive of a large house, the only sound now the soft drumming of rain. A streetlamp far behind them gave a little illumination to the drops sliding over the glass, but could only give a bare outline to the dark structure before them.

"Is this your home?" she asked, peeking up through the windshield, trying vainly to get a better look.

"Yes." He squeezed her hand again. "Come inside?"

He led them them through the dark house, flicking lights on as they walked. She looked around, noting vaguely that the rooms and halls were dressed in warm, dark tones, filled with lots of things – it looked impressive and expensive, but not homey. She smiled to herself. Not so different from the Dark Castle, then.

They ended in the kitchen. He fetched a kettle from under one of the cabinets and began to fill it. She looked aroud, running her fingers along the smooth, cold counter. "What can I do?"

"Nothing. Don't worry about it."

She rolled her eyes at him, a slight smile playing across her lips. "I'm not an invalid, Rumple. I'm hungry."

His grinned. "There's a loaf of bread beside the refrigerator."

"The what?"

His grin widened as he stepped around her, pulling open the door of the large metal cabinet that dominated the wall behind her. "Refrigerator," he said, reaching inside for some containers. "Keeps things cold." His eyes were bright with amusement, but not mocking.

Belle narrowed her eyes, attempting to look serious and censuring, but couldn't keep the grin from her face as she ducked behind the metal door to grab the bread.

He made them Welsh rarebits, and he did ask for her help on a few things. But mostly there wasn't much to do, and she found herself perched on the counter, watching him work. She was used to sitting and watching him work, though it had been a long, long while. As he worked, she asked him questions – about things in the kitchen, about the house, about his shop, the town – and he answered her questions with some truths, some teasings, and some half-truths that she didn't want to worry about this night.

Later, they sat side by side on the stools by the counter, their dirty plates and the second pot of tea spread out between them. Rumplestiltskin was slicing peaches with a paring knife, alternating between setting them on the plate in front of her and nibbling the slice straight off the knife.

She said something and he laughed – genuinely laughed, not the lilting guile of amusement he'd favored in their world, or the tones of bitterness and mocking he seemed so fond of in this one. Belle smiled. She was suddently glad – very, very glad – to be here. Even if most of this place was unfamiliar, she knew him.

She finished her tea and tried vainly to cover a yawn.

"Come on, dearest," he said, pushing up off the stool. "You're tired."

He led them upstairs, slowly, leaning heavily on his cane. Not for the first time he loathed the twisted, human body he was once again confined to. He was glad she stayed a pace behind, not wanting to meet her eyes.

He showed her the bedroom, all dark wood and rich colors, with thick folds of drapes over the windows. "There's a bathroom through there," he pointed to another door, as he made his way to a large dresser. She walked through where he indicated. A large clawfoot tub dominated the space, with a glass-walled shower beside. There was a large collection of bottles along the counter, and she started examining them had always been a streak of vanity through him, in the old world, with the elaborate costumes and lilting theatrics. Here, he seemed to favor a careful, somber appearance and shows of wealth at every turn – and apparently six kinds of shampoo – but the effect was much the same. Belle smiled to herself.

She retreated from the bathroom and found him standing by the bed. He held out a bundle of folded clothes, his other hand gripped tightly around his cane. "Here. You can sleep in these tonight. Tomorrow we'll get you something else – anything you need." She stepped forward and took the clothes from him. The fabric was smooth and cool beneath her touch, much more luxurious than anything she'd ever touched while in the asylum.

"Thank you," she said, meeting his eyes. "Could I….have a bath tonight?" She didn't want to tell him that even in new clothes her skin felt foreign, or that her hair still smelled like a hospital cell and every time it fell into her face it turned her stomach in revulsion.

"Yes of course, dearest," he replied, his tone light because of what she did not tell him. "There are towels in the narrow closet beside the sink. Do you need anything else?"

"No, I think there are enough bottles and potions in there to last a hundred baths," she said laughingly.

It took her a few minutes to work out the taps, but she soon had hot water rushing into the large bathtub. While it was filling, she went through the multitude of half-empty bottles on the counter, opening and smelling and reading curious lables. In the hospital, there was only the yellow block of soap and two small bottles for her hair, delivered once a week, and they all smelled like cleaning chemicals or medicine. Belle hated that smell, and she was going to wash it away and never encounter it again. She selected several bottles with the scent of foreign plants and masculine spices and other things she could not put name to, grabbed several fluffy towels from the narrow closet, and set everything within an arm's length of the bath.

A few minutes later she was sinking into the luxurious warm water with a sigh. She leaned her head back to rest against the edge of the tub and closed her eyes. In the Dark Castle, he had given her a bath that filled and emptied itself by magic and always stayed hot, and although the copper basin was not quite so large as this porceline one, she had enjoyed long hot soaks. She sunk down until her chin was covered, stretching her legs out till her toes peeked above the rim on the far side. At the hospital, there had been only the shower with its hard spray and the water that was either too cold or too hot. But she was gone from there now, and there was nothing stopping her from indulging in an old, old habit.

She washed her hair twice with the stuff from his strange scented bottles, and scrubbed at her skin till she felt pink and new and far removed from the clinical smell of the hospital. She would have soaked longer, but this was no magic tub, and the water was cooling. She stepped out and grabbed for one of the thick, fluffy towels to wrap around herself. The towels at the hospital had been small and stiff – but she stopped those thoughts, remembering with deliberate care that she was gone from there now, and safe, and protected. She slipped into the clothes he had given her – loose pants and matching shirt that buttoned up the front, done in dark grey silk. They fit her strangely, being cut for a man. She clutched at the long sleeves, bunching them in her hands. She hadn't worn silk in a very long time.

When she finally emerged from the bathroom with a cloud of scented steam, she found the bedroom dim and empty. A single small lamp still lit on the nightstand showed that he had left one side of the bed neatly turned back, but of him there was no sign. No, she corrected, there was his necktie folded across the back of the plush chair by the window. She touched it curiously as she looked around the room again, but it was quite obvious he was not here.

Belle made her way slowly through the dark, empty house. The only sound was the muted drumming of the rain against the windows. In the Dark Castle, she would know just where to find him on a quiet night like this. He would be holed up in his tower room where the rain was always loud on the roof, in one of his dark brooding moods where he forgot to sleep. She would search him out there, and bring him tea, and when she could not hold back a yawn he would giggle and magic the tea set away, and tease her for wanting to sleep in the morrow and shirk her duties. Then he would reach for a brace of candles and shoo her out ahead of himself, and follow her out of the tower toward her chambers, always stopping just at the head of her hall to hand the lights over with a gallant flourish before whisking himself away in the dark.

She padded down the stairs, searching him out among these new dark corners, and found him in the sitting room beside the kitchen. There was a small fire burning before him, and he sat motionless, watching it – still, but not at rest. He had shed his suit jacked and undone the top two buttons of his shirt, but otherwise he seemed as stiff and armored as when she had first seen him in the shop. The firelight flickered across his face, deepening the lines and shadows. He reminded her of a smoldering wick, waiting to be relit.

"Rumplestiltskin?" He turned at the sound of her voice, throwing half his face into darkness. Belle was suddenly very aware that this was not the Dark Castle, that she had no tea to bring as an excuse or offering, that there were no rosy candles here. Whatever words she had prepared fell flat in her mouth.

"What is it, Belle?" He leaned forward in the chair when she did not speak, his eyes concerned. "What's wrong?"

Do the brave thing, she reminded herself. "I – Aren't you coming to bed?"

He blinked, confusion and surprise and tenderness and brooding flicking across his features, and her hesitation melted away. Here was something she understood, his unsurity. With all that had changed, this part of the man had not.

"I….thought you would want to be alone," he said hesitatingly.

She stepped forward,coming to perch on the arm of the chair. He snatched his arm away before she was near. "I do not want to be alone tonight," she said firmly. "I have been alone for too many nights, and now I want you to stay with me." She reached for his hand so she would not have to meet his eyes just now. "Please."

He stroked his thumb across her knuckles. "Of course," he said, very softly before letting her hand go. He pushed up from the chair, stiffly, and for the second time that night led them upstairs.


End file.
